


A Cloak, Many Colours, and the Boy Who Didn't Live

by Snegurochka



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-06
Updated: 2007-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snegurochka/pseuds/Snegurochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There was visibility, and then there was invisibility. James Potter understood the difference between the two. When he decided to become invisible, no one was more surprised than he.</i></p><p>4,000 words. PG. James-centric genfic. Written before the explanation of this in DH, for a prompt at omniocular: <i>James decides to leave his Cloak of Invisibility with Dumbledore (why?)</i> March 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cloak, Many Colours, and the Boy Who Didn't Live

The fabric slithered over his fingers like liquid magic, and James watched his hands disappear. They emerged on the other side and he clenched the edge of the Cloak in his fists, entranced by the way his dirty fingernails seemed to float in the air, knuckles whitened around nothing at all.

There was visibility, Dumbledore had told him once, and then there was invisibility. One required only presence, really, the foresight to know when it would suit one's goals to be seen, and to indeed appear at that time and place. The other, however… well. That required _absence_, which was much more difficult to offer – especially for an only child, a Quidditch hero, Head Boy, groom-to-be, a man visible at every turn and actively courting the attention.

But James Potter understood the difference between the two. When he decided to become invisible, no one was more surprised than he. Yet at the same time, it couldn't have been any other way.

*

Perhaps it would be best to begin early, on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on a blustery day in September, 1971. James Potter was eleven years old, a bit too tall for his age, and couldn't help but trip over growing feet that he wasn't quite used to. He shoved his glasses up with a frown of annoyance – why weren't any of the other kids wearing glasses? – and looked around for someone to talk to who _wasn't_ his mother.

"Hi," he said abruptly to a boy nearby, intrigued by the boy's sullen face and too-long hair. He looked like a troublemaker, and James liked troublemakers.

The boy said nothing but shot a deathly glare at James from ice-black eyes before turning away, folding his arms over his chest in a huff, and tapping his foot on the platform.

"Where are your brothers and sisters?" James called, refusing to give up.

The boy glanced over his shoulder at James. "Where're yours?" he shot back, pushing a greasy strand of hair out of his face.

"Haven't got any," said James cheerfully. "I asked mum for a brother when I was seven, but she told me that my dad would have to push a watermelon out his nose before that would happen, and when I asked my dad about _that_ he said something about hell being frozen, and then–"

"James!" His mother's voice cut in and James turned to her, frowning.

"What?"

"Your new friend doesn't need to hear about that, dear," she said, glancing back at James's father with a tight smile. "Did you _say_ that to him?" James heard her mutter. "For heaven's sake, Richard, you didn't have to–"

"My mum says it's because the world doesn't need more half-bloods, and even one of me is probably too many," the boy mumbled to James, whose eyes widened.

"Well, that's bollocks," he whispered back, edging closer to the boy while his mother continued to reprimand his father.

"Shh!" the boy hissed. "You can't say words like that!"

"What, _bollocks_?" James repeated loudly. "Sure can. Bollocks, bollocks, BOLL-OCKS!"

The boy leaped at James and clapped a hand over his mouth, his face turning purple. "Shut up!" he whispered fiercely. "You'll get me in trouble!"

Right on cue, a woman's sharp voice cut through the busy platform. "Severus!"

The boy paled, releasing his hold on James.

"Get back here _right now_, you filthy child!" The boy shuffled away from James with his cheeks flaming as his mother cuffed him on the back of the head. "What do you think you're doing, talking to Pureblood children? What have I told you?" She grabbed his shoulder and shook him, her voice rising. "_What have I told you_, boy? You can tell by their clothes, the way they stand there so high and mighty!"

James couldn't make out his mumbled reply, as his own mother put an arm around his shoulders and gently led him away.

"Stupid child!" the woman continued to shout in a shrill voice that could be heard down the platform. "Let you out of my sight for _one_ second, and look what–"

"Come, James," his mother said quietly. "Perhaps you can speak to that boy again later, once you're on the train."

"I don't think I want to," murmured James, glancing back over his shoulder, and as he watched the dark-haired boy who could have been his friend but now never would be, cowering on the cloudy platform and seeming to shrink before his very eyes, he suddenly realised for the first time what it must be like to want to be invisible.

*

No, that wasn't quite the place to begin. After all, we can't have James Potter feeling _sorry_ for Severus Snape, can we? Besides, that really doesn't have anything to do with a certain Cloak that will soon make its entrance. Let's start over.

*

It would be best to begin a bit later, then, on Christmas Eve of James's second year at Hogwarts.

It had been a strange year thus far, truth be told: first, there was that incident with the toad and the cauldron that James had _sworn_ to Professor Slughorn hadn't been his fault; then, there was that thing with the alarm in the Restricted Section and the way it wouldn't go off if James held his breath and thought very hard about not _wanting_ it to go off (Sirius for one had been very impressed with that); and then, of course, there had been that time in Charms that he hadn't told anyone about, the time his quill had disappeared before his very eyes when he hadn't even done anything to it.

His parents were visiting friends that Christmas (_Surely you don't mind staying at the school, dear? Perhaps that nice boy from the train will also stay…_) and his friends were long gone. It was the first and, as it turned out, the only Christmas James would spend alone at Hogwarts.

He intended to make the most of it.

Before we go any further, perhaps it would be prudent to note that James Potter did not in fact enjoy spending time by himself. Ever since he had first realised his mother wouldn't be offering him a sibling playmate anytime soon, he had surrounded himself with friends. Friends always had ideas, after all; friends could help with schemes and plans and all sorts of ventures that would be too time-consuming or logistically impossible to attempt alone.

Friends also made decent look-outs, let us not forget. And a great deal of what James Potter got up to at Hogwarts invariably involved the use of a look-out or three. To be alone, then, was to court danger, fly solo and test the limits of accountability.

Pity, then, that there wasn't actually anything to sodding _do_ in a castle alone at Christmas.

He wandered around the castle, investigating its nooks and crannies and finding at least two new tunnels he'd have to remember to tell Sirius about later. It was on Christmas Eve, wandering the corridors bored and aimless, that James ran straight into Dumbledore.

"Excuse me, Headmaster," he said, shoving his glasses up his nose and eyeing the old wizard carefully. "Didn't see you, sir."

"You should be in your common room, James," said Dumbledore kindly, gazing down at him. "It is much too late for you to be wandering the corridors."

"But I'm _bored_, sir," he complained before he could stop himself.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Bored?" he repeated. "I see." He paused for a long moment, and James wanted to ask if he could be excused, but he mustered his patience and waited. "Tell me," Dumbledore began at last, his eyes intent on James. "If I gave you a project to work on, would you do it?"

James frowned. "Like a homework assignment, sir?"

"Of sorts, I suppose," said Dumbledore with a nod. "I suspect you enjoy puzzles, is that correct?"

James shrugged.

"Puzzles such as… how to make a car fly," continued Dumbledore, "or how to make a cat talk."

James looked up. "A cat talk?" he asked. "That's impossible."

"Is it?" Dumbledore smiled at him. "Perhaps. But if you had to do it, where would you start?"

At that moment, James was fairly certain the old man had consumed not only too much fruitcake but a fair too much mead as well, but he did have his ideas on the matter, so it seemed silly not to share them. "Well," he began thoughtfully, leaning against the wall and chewing his lip. "A _Vox_ charm to start, but that only works on creatures with language already, like humans and Merpeople, so I guess I'd have to modify it somehow, maybe combine it with a proto-Animagus spell, but–"

"How do you know about the proto-Animagus spell?" asked Dumbledore, his face interested but not unkind.

James shrugged. "Read some stuff," he mumbled. "Anyway, the point is that it'd take some research, but I reckon I could make a cat talk." He folded his arms over his chest and eyed the old man. "But why would I?" he added.

"Ah," said Dumbledore, "yes, that is the question. An important question. Why would you? Cats are not meant to talk, after all, and we must be careful about using magic to alter things too drastically." Dumbledore paused again before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a shimmering square of fabric.

James craned his neck for a better look.

"Can you see this?" asked Dumbledore.

James squinted, moving his head to catch the light at the right angle. "Sort of," he said with a frown. "It… moves around."

"In a way," agreed Dumbledore. "It so happens that this piece of material is rather valuable. Made from the hair of a Demiguise." He eyed James over his half-moon spectacles. "If I were to give it to you, James," he said pointedly, "would you take care of it?"

James stared at him. "Would I…? Sure," he said with a shrug.

"You may do with it what you like," said Dumbledore, passing the fabric to James, "but do not destroy it, and do not lose it. Is that clear?"

In his hands, the fabric was the size of a dinner plate but as light as a feather. He watched with wide eyes as his fingers disappeared underneath it. "Sir!" he exclaimed. "What does this–? Why are you–?" He stopped himself, glancing up at the headmaster. "Is this like… a talking cat?" he asked suspiciously.

Dumbledore merely smiled at him and turned to go, whistling a tune down the corridor. "Children's minds should always be occupied by new challenges," he called over his shoulder. "Use it as you see fit, but remember the rules."

When James looked up again from his invisible hands, the headmaster was gone.

*

No, no. That's not the right place to start, either. After all, who in their right mind would believe that James Potter _made_ his own Invisibility Cloak? It's ridiculous. If this were a story, you would rightly close the book at this point and tell your friends it was too fantastical to be believed.

But this is not a story. This is James Potter's life.

*

It was more than halfway through James's fourth year at Hogwarts before he finished the Cloak. The Engorgement Charm had been easy enough, and even the variation on _Libero_ that kept the fabric from slicking together when one end touched the other hadn't been too challenging. But he couldn't actually get the bloody thing to maintain its _invisibility_ – rather an important detail – once it was large enough to fit a human under it.

He was researching something else entirely when he landed on the solution.

"The proto-Animagus charm," he murmured to himself when it hit him, and he lifted his head from its perch on an open library book and wiped the drool from his mouth, waving Sirius off and racing back to the dormitory to lift the secret fabric out of his trunk.

It had to be _alive_, just a little bit, just enough to breathe and move in time with his own body. Invisibility had to be a choice, he realised; he couldn't use magic to force an object into a state it didn't want to be in.

"_Brilliant_," he breathed as he held the finished Cloak in his hands, the dark glow of it catching the light and reflecting in his glasses. "You're brilliant, aren't you?" The material slid through his hands and pooled on the floor with a liquid grace, blinking up at him. He smiled when he realised he could have been speaking to himself as easily as the Cloak.

"What shall we do with you first, then?" he whispered, bending to pick it up.

*

Of course, it would be quite simple at this point to relate the various tales of troublemaking that James Potter and his friends got up to once he showed them the Cloak, insisting he'd only snagged it from his father's closet when he was last home and didn't realise what it could do. The antics of the four Marauders were well known at Hogwarts and beyond, after all. But all right. If _one_ antic anecdote would please, then we shall provide it.

*

It was almost too easy, circling the confused boy who could hear but not see his attacker.

"Who are you?" Snape spat across the darkening pitch, blinking rapidly. "Potter," he added, his voice ragged and his eyes narrowing. "Sod off before I hex your bollocks off."

"I thought you weren't allowed to use that word, _Snivvy_," James sang back, his voice piercing the open air behind Snape's head.

Snape whirled around, wand out and eyes wild.

"I thought I'd show you my new Cloak," he added, hardly able to hold back the grin plastered on his face under the smooth fabric. Severus Snape had charmed Remus's trousers to turn into live snakes when he stood up in History of Magic that morning. Severus Snape had conjured eyeballs in the middle of Sirius's soup the night before. Severus Snape was a slimy little bastard with enough Dark magic up his sleeve to kill a unicorn, James was sure of it.

He raised his wand under the Cloak, eager to test whether the nastiest spells he could think of would push through the fabric and burn Snape's ugly skin. One more circle around, one more surge of power at Snape's confusion and anger, and James was ready. He aimed at Snape's chest and opened his mouth, and –

*

Well. We really don't need to see the rest of that, do we? Yes, James Potter was a bit of a bastard when he wanted to be. There were no excuses for that, and we wouldn't expect you to offer any. He used the Cloak for a bit of good, and he used the Cloak for a bit of evil, but mostly he just used the Cloak for stability. It lived and breathed along with him, after all; it was tied to his life force.

Others could wield it, but as it turned out, it answered only to James.

*

There were many other uses for the Cloak. His friends were ecstatic about it, and it aided them all a great deal as they charted the castle's various tunnels, nooks, and other forbidden spaces for the purposes of creating the Map, and later sneaked out into the moonlight once a month to ensure Remus didn't have to be alone.

The Cloak went to the kitchens after hours for extra pudding, to the locker rooms to disassemble the Slytherins' brooms, and even tried to snake its way up the stairs to the girls dormitory once in fifth year. As it turned out, invisibility did not extend to mass, and no amount of magical healing could quite erase the bruise James's ego took when he was summarily tossed back down to the common room to raucous laughter.

Then, of course, there were the uses nobody knew about, especially not James's friends.

When Lily Evans first caught his eye, he stayed awake for weeks practicing the best way to ask her to Hogsmeade. She was fresh-faced and innocent and popular and he was even willing to allow that she might be cleverer than him – not something he admitted about very many people. She made his heart beat faster and his tongue tie in knots; his underarms grew sickly damp whenever she passed, arching her eyebrow at him and scowling.

He was certain she would agree to go out with him, though. Everyone said so when he announced his plan.

But she didn't.

He deflated like a pricked balloon when she listened with wide eyes to his carefully prepared speech about love and destiny and butterbeer and how she should probably wear a scarf because it looked to be cold that weekend, and then simply folded her arms over her chest, tilted her head to the side, and said, "No, James Potter. I'm not going to Hogsmeade with you."

"Why not?" he asked gruffly, as though she had spoken an incomprehensible language.

She leaned forward, her brow creased. "Because I don't like you." And with that she had spun on her heel and marched up to her dorm, as though she hadn't just broken his heart, as though she regularly sent teenage boys into such despair, as though she _actually _meant what she'd said.

He laughed heartily as Sirius slapped him on the back and said with a snicker, "Better luck next time, mate."

He continued his game of Wizard's chess with Remus and even helped Peter with his homework. He put on a brave face and pushed it all aside, because who was _she_ to refuse _him_, anyway?

But when Hogsmeade morning dawned, bright and chill and oppressive, he waved his friends out the door and promised to catch up with them later, after he'd done some work on his broom – loose tail fibre mucking with his aerodynamics, see. Had to take care of it before the next match.

As the dormitory door swung closed, he dug the Cloak out of his trunk and sank down to the floor, draping it over his head and huddling in the corner. His chest felt tight and heavy and he wasn't sure he would ever have the courage to face the rest of them, or Lily, again.

He was still there when they returned, laughing and joking and asking each other where he was. Hugging his knees to his chest and frozen under the Cloak, paralysed by self-doubt and rejection, he watched the world around him go on without him, if only for a moment.

*

Later, there was a war, and James fought in it. So did his friends, and Lily, and his teachers from Hogwarts. So did his former classmates who had gone on to work at the Ministry – Aurors and Dark creature liaison officers and even clerks who spent their days transcribing the Minister's meeting notes. Everyone fought because everyone knew it was the right thing to do.

Well, not everyone.

James could never see himself forgiving those who fought for the wrong side. They were traitors and murderers and deserved everything coming to them. Snape most of all.

But when Sirius came to him and whispered urgently that Remus was missing, Remus had defected, _Remus_ was the traitor, James grabbed the Cloak and clutched it in his fingers, watching his hands disappear and his knuckles curl around nothing. It was helplessness at its finest moment.

When Dumbledore arrived to explain that the situation had changed for them, that someone was going to help them, and then, to ask for a favour, tired blue eyes sliced through James and he knew there was only one thing left to do.

He laid the Cloak over his knees, watched his body disappear, and nodded.

*

We've reached the end. Shhh, it's quiet now. Can you hear that? It's a dull thud, a heartbeat, a rhythm of defeat and danger that the headmaster refuses to claim as his own.

*

Dumbledore sat at his desk at Hogwarts and gazed at the young man in front of him who was twenty-one years old and terrified of dying.

"It talks," said James quietly, placing the folded Cloak on the desk and then stepping back from it as though eager to be free of its touch.

Dumbledore only nodded, a small movement of his head that made the crinkles in his forehead seem deeper.

"I mean, it doesn't _talk_ talk, I'm not completely mad, but it… uh." James scratched at his neck and jaw, unsure of what to say. "Anyway. It's comfortable, you know. Quite warm. He shouldn't get cold in it, at least. I mean, maybe in December or later, but for now… yeah. It'll be fine."

"James," said Dumbledore, his voice low and steady, and James fell silent. The old man nodded toward the Cloak. "Put it on, please. One more time."

James was startled but dared not disobey. He reached for the folded fabric again and shook it loose, spinning it over his shoulders and ducking his head underneath it. It fell to the floor in shining waves, just as it always had, and James instinctively shuffled his feet to ensure they were covered. He watched Dumbledore from behind his invisible shield and hoped the sadness in the old man's eyes was for someone else.

"Yes," said Dumbledore after a long moment, breathing deeply and straightening in his chair as an unnamed strength seemed to fill him. "I do believe I would rather have you standing here in front of me than not," he announced.

James nodded and refolded the Cloak, trying to keep his hands from shaking. "It's not because I like him," he said, because he felt that needed to be understood.

Dumbledore smiled. "No, I have no illusion that you do. But you need his help, and he needs yours. He is the one who needs to be invisible now. We have other ways of hiding you. Better ways." He paused. "You could have been friends, you know," he added, and James barked a laugh.

"Sure," he said, shaking his head. "Right after his mother called me a filthy Pureblood at the train station our very first year. Could've been best friends, old Snape and me." He stared at the Cloak for a long minute before raising his eyes to Dumbledore and forcing a smile. "He won't protect my family, Albus, not if it comes down to choosing between us and something he actually values."

Dumbledore held his gaze. "I believe you are wrong in that, but even if you are not, you are forgetting our secret weapon." He gestured at the Cloak.

James bit his lip. It seemed folly to put this much trust in the old man, and moreover, in _Snape_, but he was out of options and tired of running.

"It talks, you say?" Dumbledore smiled, waving a hand at the heat that crept up James's face. "It comes from your magic, don't forget. It will always answer to you and, if I am not mistaken, to your blood."

James stared at him. "Harry?" he whispered.

"I will ensure the Cloak gets to Severus for now," said Dumbledore with an air of finality, rising from his chair, "and when it is time, I shall ensure it finds its way back to your family. Go home and prepare, James. We will perform the Fidelius tomorrow."

*

There was visibility, Dumbledore had told him once, and then there was invisibility. After seven years of courting absence, disappearing from time and space at whim and living in shadows, hiding when convenient, it was time to step forward.

Invisibility was a choice, after all, and _presence_ shouldn't have been so difficult to enact, not for an only child, a Quidditch hero, Head Boy, husband, and father to a boy who could, just maybe, be the saviour of the Wizarding world.

He left Dumbledore's office without the Cloak and trudged home to face head-on whatever the war would bring. He was alive. He was present. He was visible, if only for one more day. It was exhilarating and terrifying, and yet, he understood why it was necessary.

It couldn't have been any other way.

 

-fin-


End file.
